Hindsight
by Hazgarn
Summary: The Lost Room. Choices made under pressure are rarely made wisely. Joe is only now coming to realize just what he has chosen. He would make it again in a heartbeat, for the sake of his daughter. That doesn't stop him from regretting the consequences...


If Joe had been thinking clearly, he might have realized what he was doing by throwing away the Key.

But, at that moment, he was too full of relief that he had finally gotten Anna _back_.

Just the sight of his daughter—there in front of him, safe and sound—was almost enough to drive back the alien sensation of the Objects intruding upon his mind. From the moment he'd stepped out of the Room he could sense them: a nerve-grating, irregular background hum like failing fluorescent lights.

He had thought at the time he was doing the right thing. That was part of it. Kreutzfeld was dead, or close enough to it that it probably didn't matter. And now that he was—well. If the Occupant had been able to keep the other Objects at a distance, that had to extend to those who sought them. Perhaps there was a way for him to do the same. He wanted out of this, at least as far out of it as it was possible for him to get… And he certainly didn't want Anna getting sucked into it any further.

The other part of it had nothing to do with planning ahead, and that was really the problem. The Key had seemed to pulse, thrumming like an exposed wire in his pocket, and the File provided a shrill counterpoint from Jennifer's purse. The Motel itself was an assault on his new senses. The air where the Room had once stood felt denser than it should have, and something about Room 9 seemed to suck something from the world around it, like a gurgling, reeking sewer drain. At the time it had been simple to put both the Key and that place behind him without a look behind.

The reality hadn't set in yet.

That happened later, on the drive back from the Motel. He was assaulted by a fierce shiver as they pass over the spot where the Bus Ticket dropped its victims. His focus broken from recounting events to Anna, he had trailed off. For a moment he thought he could feel it, the Ticket, off wherever Wally was. Briefly considering the events that had taken place there, the man's threats of Hell no longer seemed quite so amusing. It happened again a couple of times after; he became distracted by the Objects encroaching on his awareness. The final time Anna had to _shake_ him to get his attention.

He asked Jennifer to stop at a roadside station just outside of Gallup. After all he had done to get her back leaving Anna behind in the car was almost painful. With the other turbulence boiling in his mind, he half felt like he was being torn apart inside. He managed to retain his composure just long enough to enter the restroom, but once the door shut, locking out the sunlight, the heat, and the sight of his daughter, all the strength went out of his legs, leaving him collapsed on the men's room floor.

In his mind, it was as though all of the Objects had rushed upon him at once. He struggled to focus on the sensation of cool, damp tiles against his palms, but somehow those distant articles were the only things that felt _real_. They crowded his mind, calling out to him from vaults and pawn shops, forgotten basements and altars. He could feel all of them out their, moving, changing hands. He could feel their power working its influence upon the world, singing through his mind like a saw against steel.

An uncertain amount of time passed before he was able to erect a kind of barrier in his mind. Even then, the awareness did not simply fade, it was merely forced to the background of his mind as a sort of raucous static. Only then could he pull himself up from the floor.

He rested his weight on his forearms, leaning against the chipped sink. Staring dumbly at his hands above the basin, they were covered in filth and shaking. He groped with numbed fingers at the rusted faucet, a shiver lancing up his spine at the dull shriek caused by its turning. He felt half chilled and half fevered. He felt _more_ than half dead.

The water he splashed onto his face was metallic smelling, but it was cold, helping to anchor him.

Joe searched his reflection in the mirror appraisingly, barely recognizing himself. It was more than the simple physical toll his ordeal through the past days had taken upon him. There was an odd quality, now, upon which he could not immediately put his finger. It was in some way a dwarfing sense of solidity, of a thing being somehow realer than real. Of _permanence_. And it was at that moment that he first really began to comprehend the consequences of what he had done.

The Occupant—poor Eddie—had said it himself. The Objects were aware. Somehow, it was as though they all wanted to find each other… Now they had found him. He was aware of all of them, and just as disturbingly, he realized, in some fashion they were ware of him. There was nothing of life or intelligence to it, they just _were_. To a living mind—a _living_ Object—it was torture. It was Hell.

And an Object could only be destroyed in a room that didn't exist. By shutting the door on the Key, he'd doomed himself to that Hell for eternity.


End file.
